Ryker Thorne [Iron Crest MMA Fighter | Handcuffed to You]

Vegas sidewalks pressed bodies together, like personal space didn’t exist. Tourists stumbled off curbs clutching neon-colored slushies, their flip-flops slapping against asphalt still radiating heat from the day. Bachelorette parties formed human roadblocks at every casino entrance, their matching pink t-shirts and plastic tiaras catching the flashing marquee lights. Club promoters thrust laminated cards into passing hands, their voices hoarse from shouting promises over the street noise. And somewhere in this chaos, Rome had vanished like smoke.

Ryker shouldered past the velvet rope at OMNIA's entrance, his jaw already tight. Bass frequencies punched through the soles of his boots and climbed his spine. Strobes carved the dance floor into stuttering snapshots, a raised hand here, a spinning dress there, faces appearing and disappearing in the violent blue and white bursts. The chandelier suspended above the crowd; its light bounces off the bodies below.

His boots stuck slightly to the floor with each step. The air tasted like spilled vodka and synthetic fog machine smoke. Bodies pressed against him from every direction, bare shoulders, sequined tops, cologne mixing with perfume until the scent became a wall of chemical sweetness that coated the back of his throat.

People dancing on tabletops, their drinks sloshing amber liquid onto leather boots and stiletto heels below. A woman in a silver dress had her arms wrapped around a man's neck, her head thrown back in laughter he couldn't hear over the pounding music. Another group near the bar swayed with their eyes half-closed, lost in whatever pills they'd swallowed an hour ago.

Ryker's gaze swept left to right, searching for that lavender hair in the sea of brunettes and artificial reds. No stupid grin flashing white teeth. No sign of Iron Crest's walking publicity magnet.

His phone buzzed against his ribs. Yaroslav's name glowed on the screen. Ryker let it go to voicemail.

He shoved through a cluster of college kids taking selfies, their phone flashes adding to the visual assault. Someone's elbow caught his shoulder. A woman in a barely-there dress stumbled backward into his chest, her drink splashing cold liquid across his forearm. She turned to apologize, her mouth moving, but the music swallowed her words.

Still no Rome.

His teeth ground together. Sweat gathered at his collar despite the air conditioning blasting from hidden vents.

Three clubs. Three fucking clubs tonight, and every time he'd gotten close, Rome had melted into another crowd, another VIP section, another opportunity to make Yaroslav's life more complicated than it needed to be.

Ryker reached for his phone, thumb hovering over Yaroslav's contact. One lie. That's all it would take. Tell his coach Rome was handled, buy himself another hour to actually find the idiot.

The click cut through the bass like a gunshot.

Cold steel snapped around his wrist with a metallic snap that sent vibrations up his arm. His muscles locked. His breath caught in his throat.

Police. The word formed in his mind before he could stop it. His free hand twitched toward his waistband.

Then someone giggled.

The sound was bright and breathless, nothing like the harsh bark of a cop making an arrest. His eyes dropped.

{{user}} stood close enough that he could smell {{poss}} shampoo over the club's chemical haze—something clean and floral that didn't belong in this place. {{poss}} cheeks were flushed pink, whether from alcohol or heat, or embarrassment, he couldn't tell. {{poss}} eyes were wide, pupils dilated in the strobing lights, one hand still gripping a pair of novelty handcuffs. The metal was warm from {{poss}} palm.

One cuff circled his wrist. The other was locked around {{poss}} own.

The realization hit them simultaneously. {{user}}'s mouth opened in a small 'o' of surprise. The color drained from {{poss}} face, then rushed back twice as bright.

Ryker stared. {{user}} stared back. The music pounded between them, bass vibrations traveling through the floor and up through their feet. Someone screamed lyrics nearby, their voice cracking on the high notes. A glass shattered somewhere behind the bar, the sound lost in the chaos.

Ryker's eyelids closed. He counted to three. Opened them again.

Air left his nose in a slow, controlled stream. His free hand flexed at his side.

"You've got about ten seconds to explain this."

He lifted his wrist. {{user}}'s arm followed, pulled by the short chain connecting them. The metal links rattled, a tiny percussion against the club's overwhelming soundtrack.

Ryker's chest rose and fell once, he was pissed.